Archive for March, 2015

Lately, I have found myself fixated on the fact that I just can’t work out. Because I fractured the wire on my first sacral nerve stimulator while engaging in aqua aerobics, I am worried, actually terrified, that something like that will happen again. Since my “go to” when my emotions run high is food, I am gaining weight. Gaining weight, mixed with an inability to exercise effectively, is a very wrong combination for me.

Prior to having my daughter, I always was an active person. I enjoyed training, competing, and reaping the benefits of a healthy lifestyle. After having my daughter, and extensive therapy, I was once again enjoying the benefits of going to the gym, being a reasonable weight, and a healthy person. I even found that I could exercise carefully and effectively with my first Interstim placement. Once pregnant with my son, and having my pelvic floor slip, being on bed-rest for 19 weeks, fracturing my Interstim wire, and recovering from another surgery, I have continued to lose that overall wellness I used to enjoy.

And I want it back. But, I’m afraid. I don’t want to fracture another wire. I cannot afford the type of trainer I would need that would be able to look at my x-rays, determine wire placement, and recommend safe and effective exercises. I cannot afford to spend weeks/months/years back in physical therapy. I need something, but, I don’t know how to access it or afford it. I really would LOVE to be able to get something in place for “spring training.” Any suggestions?

I think I’m over it. I think, I’m healed. And then I realize, come the final day in February, that the mind and the memories it holds, are powerful things. I have been feeling “off” since this past weekend. I’ve noticed myself tearing up at times, food numbing, spending time doing mindless tasks like surfing the internet, suffering extreme fatigue, among other things. When talking with my husband about why I am seemingly depressed, his answer, “I’m not surprised…it’s the last day in February.” And you know what, I’m not surprised either…now that I can logically draw a correlation between my segmented depressive episodes and my daughter’s original due date.

February 29th. Due date. Leap year baby. March 1, March 2, March 3, March 4, March 5, March 6, March 7, March 8, March 9, March 10, March 11, March 12.

12 days. 12 days overdue. 12 days to assess my situation. 12 days that something could have been done to prevent the trauma. 12 days.

Here’s what I did in those 12 days-back in 2008.

Ate ice cream. Was told everything is fine. Went to post dates ultrasound. Was told everything is fine. Told my baby was 10 pounds 10 ounces. Was told everything is fine. Told to wait the weekend and come in on Monday, March 10th to be induced. Was told everything is fine. Had failed cervidal induction. Was told everything is fine. Had pitocin. Was told everything is fine. Had failed epidural. Was told everything is fine. Had failed epidural. Was told everything is fine. Had failed epidural. Was told everything is fine. In the hospital for 34 hours. Was told everything is fine. Had failure to progress in pushing after hour 3 of pushing. Was told everything is fine. Dislocated my hip when my leg was dropped. Was told everything is fine. Had failed forceps placement. Was told everything is fine. Had forceps placed. Was told everything is fine. Had baby delivered. Was told everything is fine. Had her whisked away with a bruised and battered face and head. Was told everything is fine. Had a severe postpartum hemorrhage. Was told everything is fine. Was given rectal meds. Was told everything is fine. Had stitches for a 3rd degree tear. Was told everything is fine. Given my baby. Was told everything is fine. Floor was covered in my blood, being tracked around by everyone’s footwear. Was told everything is fine.

So yes, as I subconsciously relive these 12 days, I should know “everything is fine.” Even though it’s not, and it wasn’t.